


These Violent Delights

by AliLamba



Category: Veronica Mars - All Media Types
Genre: Adulthood, Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-30 06:50:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6413353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliLamba/pseuds/AliLamba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>LoVe, ballet AU.</p>
<p>There are two stars of the Neptune Ballet, and they do not dance together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Violent Delights

**Author's Note:**

> VMficrecs March challenge gets all the blame for this prompt, which I couldn't escape, apparently, because I wrote two fics in the ballet! alternate universe. This is just my life right now. Otherwise known as the only other ballet! AU idea I had. Also, this is like - the second of three fics that features Romeo & Juliet and it's like, I swear I've read other Shakespeare plays.
> 
> Also btw the prompt was "A romantic ballet AU." I just want everyone to know that.

 

 

 

There are two stars of the Neptune Ballet.

And they do not dance together.

No one’s quite sure how it started. Rumors go that it involved a ferret. Those people are dumb. Most generally figure someone had been scorned, or slighted, maybe stolen someone’s tiara – regardless, it doesn’t matter, because there are two stars of the Neptune Ballet, and they do not dance together.

“Logan,” Veronica acknowledges, dropping her bag near the floor-to-ceiling mirrors.

“Demon spawn,” he returns, leg outstretched and resting on the barre.

“I hear we’re getting a new choreographer today.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“After you.”

It’s as much as they’ll talk all day.

So.

Someone probably should’ve warned her.

Mallory Dent, bright eyed and bubbling with enthusiasm for her new job, watches the dancers prance through the room under her guidance. She’s got choreography dancing in her head, can’t wait to get started casting for her rendition of _Romeo & Juliet._

“Okay, I think I’ve got it.”

The young adults are all grouped around her, slightly out of breath, waiting, not seemingly as enthusiastic as she is to be casting her show.

“I want Logan and Veronica to be our Romeo and Juliet.”

It takes a moment to understand that the sudden influx of raucous commotion is not giddy cheering, and it’s mostly centered on the two people who should be the most excited, who are shouting loudly – at her – and are surrounded by little moats of people also voicing very passionate dissent.

Her Romeo and Juliet finally turn their attention to each other, hurling insults across the room so competitively that she barely hears more than catches and phrases: _Your mother – Fuck you – Will drink the poison in act one – Give me the knife now I’m ready –_

Stuff like that.

It’s bewildering for two people who seem to have so much passion and chemistry when they dance, and she’d been nothing but excited to help them explore these traits together.

“Am I – I’m sorry – am I missing something?”

“I’ll be Juliet,” another girl – Hannah – volunteers, stepping toward Mallory and away from a Veronica Mars still spitting insults.

“Like hell you will!” Veronica seethes, shooting Logan a murderous look. “Miss Dent, Logan can be fucking Paris. I’ll be your Juliet.”

“To be Juliet you’d actually have to be fuckable, Veronica.”

“Then you better work on your pointe, because I’m going to fucking _kill you_.”

_Okay_ , Mallory’s mouth pops open, _that’s a bit much_.

She glances at ballet master Clemmons, who looks nothing but resigned. Resigned like, this has happened before. Like it happens all the time. Like she should expect it to be part of her life now.

Oh, hell no.

“Enough!” she shouts, and maybe it’s because she’s been so nice so far, but everyone shuts up immediately.

“Look, I really don’t get what’s going on.” That’s obvious to everyone. “But it’s my show, and it’s my choreography, and frankly, it’s my money, so I’m going to cast who I want, and I’m casting freaking Veronica Mars as Juliet and Logan Echolls as Romeo!”

She glares around the room, realizes practice is effectively over for the day, and decides to head toward the door.

“So the rest of you can eat butts!”

 

 

She emails the rest of the casting list and turns off her computer before she can receive any angry replies, pouring herself a large glass of wine instead.

_Come to Neptune_ , they said. _The best dancers you’ve ever seen_ , they said. _You could take them on the road – better make room in the trunk for all the money you’ll be making, maybe make a little custom compartment with a security code only you know or with fingerprint recognition_ , they said.

No one had mentioned that her two principal dancers wanted nothing to do with each other.

And she really thinks that that should’ve come up.

 

 

At the next practice, she’s ready.

She’s ready when Veronica is the first to enter the studio, doesn’t drop her bag, and walks straight toward her.

“We need to talk.”

“Miss Mars! How are you doing today. Did you notice it’s sunny? Imagine that. Seventeen days in a row.”

“You can’t have both of us.”

“Whatever are you talking about? Do you mean – sexually? Because I really don’t swing that way, my dear.”

“ _No_ ,” she starts, and it’s clear she’s a bit flustered. She collects herself. “Look, you’re new here? So you don’t really know how it works. Logan and I _take turns._ I was Giselle, then he was Don Quixote. I was Princess Aurora, and then he was Conrad in Le Corsaire. You see? We have a system.”

“You’re telling me that the prima ballerina and principal danseur never do pas de deux’s together? And you wonder why you’re not on Broadway?”

“We are on Broadway.”

“Oh honey. Broadway Ave in Neptune California does not count.”

Veronica’s mouth sets. She works her jaw.

“I’ll give you one more chance to change your mind now.”

“Thanks, but I’ll pass. Quit or dance, those are your options.”

Veronica straightens to her full height. At barely five-three, it’s not particularly formidable.

“Well then take this advice: choose your understudies _well_.”

 

Mallory’s up to a full glass of wine a night and two on Friday’s by the time they’re a week into rehearsals.

“Good job guys,” she drawls, voice hollow. “Logan, maybe we could do it again, but this time don’t drop Juliet? We want her to stay in the air the whole time.”

“I’m not so sure that’s necessary, Miss Dent. Pretty sure Romeo would appreciate her more on the ground. Or under, if that’s something we could work into this.”

She groans.

 

 

Mallory has a prime membership at BevMo specifically for the days she has to work with the two of them together.

She’s starting to ask herself, why do Romeo and Juliet have to have so many scenes together? Is it strictly necessary? Surely we could do most of this through inference.

It’s not so much that they refuse to learn the choreography. No, they’re at least professional enough to do that. But it’s – she’s not sure she choreographed the parts where Juliet tries so hard to knee Romeo in the balls. Or the parts where they try to kick each other with their grand-battements. Did Romeo keep telling Juliet she was getting fat?

She’s getting tired of reminding Juliet not to make eyes at Paris during the masquerade scene. Then not to make eyes at Tybalt. Not to make eyes at the dancer playing _your dad_. She has to keep reminding Logan which one is Juliet, because he keeps trying to do the pas de deux with other people, saying that Romeo could get someone hotter than Juliet for sure, and then Veronica’s trying to knee him in the balls again.

“Can we rehearse the death scene again? Not sure we have that down.”

“No, and I’ve confiscated the knives.”

It’s at least easy to choreograph the fight scenes, because the ballet troupe is more or less split in two: Veronica has her friends, and Logan has his, and there’s no reminders necessary that the two groups are supposed to hate each other. She had to confiscate the prop swords. And then the real swords. And then the pool noodles.

Clemmons is an inconsistent support. When he does show up, it’s with this dead, _why is this my life_ expression, which Mallory had at first mistook for dramatic ennui. No. She’s pretty sure he hates himself, and the one time she finds him near her bag full of contraband she’s actually worried.

 

 

 

“These are _supposed_ to be buy one get one free.”

“Ma’am, that’s for the wine _gift bags?_ We don’t sell two-buck chuck at buy one get one free.”

 

 

 

 

It becomes her new favorite thing to drunkenly apply for other jobs. When she wakes up in the morning feeling like a five-car pileup it’s with emails like _Welcome to the McDonald’s Family!_ and _Roll Back the What! Walmart wants YOU!_ and then also: _Thank you for applying to JP Morgan Chase_.

Logan and Veronica have started to retrofit their costumes. Veronica was caught taping a switchblade to her hairpiece. Logan tried to insist that his character would have brass knuckles.

 

 

 

She doesn’t know why she has high hopes for the dress rehearsal. She really doesn’t. But she approaches it with a flask full of pinot noir, and at least Clemmons shows up. He’s asleep in the eighth row, but at least he’s there. She lets the orchestra know that they’ll be late tonight.

Logan comes out in a face full of war paint. And Dracula fangs. Veronica has given herself a unibrow and a few hairy prop warts.

And Mallory doesn’t even hesitate. She takes the seat next to Clemmons, and sucks from her flask like it’s mother’s milk.

The next day she texts Clemmons:

_It’s okay if the choreographer isn’t there for opening night, right?_

And he texts back: _well at least one of us should be there_  With a picture of him drinking a mai tai in Costa Rica.

_This is where I preemptively quit._

His response is instantaneous. _Wouldn’t be the first time!_

 

 

Ballet is, for whatever reason, a huge deal in this suburb of Los Angeles, this tiny enclave of people with more money than sense, this hamlet of rich and powerful people who treat their ballet company like a national treasure. Posters are up all over town with heavily photoshopped versions of their stars in romantic embrace, and there’s a legitimate red carpet outside the theater, and a photo line inside the lobby against a backdrop with little logos for luxury car companies and JP Morgan Chase.

The _Neptune Register_ and _Los Angeles Times_ and _Washington Post_ all have questions for her, questions like: what was it like working with Veronica Mars and Logan Echolls? Are they in love? How well do they support each other on a scale of penguins to lobsters?

She bites her tongue, and teeth, and inside of her cheek to offer polite, professional responses so she can get another job somewhere else, lines like “Veronica and Logan _are_ Romeo and Juliet. The raw passion they bring to the stage is magnificent. It’s like a fairy tale. I wouldn’t be surprised it babies are conceived tonight.”

She might’ve had a glass of wine before coming.

Backstage before showtime she tries to lead them in a pep talk.

“Guys, I don’t want you to worry. Things are going to be fine. I have double checked that none of the weapons are real, but please, no eye gouging. I don’t want to clean up blood tonight. Dick? I took your sword away so you’ll have to improvise. I want you all to know that you have been awful, terrible people to work with, but I appreciate that you have not actually killed each other before tonight. Remember it’s fake. It’s all fake. Okay now go have fun tonight this is your time.”

She bows when she’s called out onstage to thank the audience for showing up to her performance of _The Worst Idea in History._ Every seat in the house is occupied, like the whole town has emptied into this room, like if a meteor hit the theater Neptune, California would have a population of zero.

And good riddance, Mallory thinks sourly, getting another glass of wine from the bar before making her way up to the box she’ll share with the mayor. Good riddance to this town, good riddance to her career, good riddance to these jerk-wads she’s never been so embarrassed to be associa—

Mallory blinks.

She blinks again.

She opens her eyes wide, leans forward in her chair, and sets her wine glass on the floor.

Veronica and Logan…are dancing.

It’s the balcony scene (okay so she’d stayed in the lobby to finish the whole glass of wine and made the bartender stick around until she was ready for a second). It’s the balcony scene, and it’s just Veronica and Logan on stage.

And it’s – she’s never – she didn’t know it was possible for them to look at each other the way they are looking at each other now, faces emoting so much wistfulness, so much desire, so much…fucking… _love_.

It’s raw, and so real, the way they move through the scene, and when Logan touches her he’s leaning into every movement just the way she whined at him nonstop for weeks to do, and when Veronica puts her arms around him her fingers are _caressing_ , and it honestly – it _feels_ like they can’t get enough of each other, like they’re already sunk in love with each other, like they physically can’t keep away and need to keep dancing because it’s the only way they can express how much they –

Those fucking, filthy cheaters.

Those dickheads.

Those lying, manipulative, motherfucking assholes!

Act II is when she starts to shred her program. Her whole career she’s made a point to keep her program from the premier, even frames them and hangs them in her living room and gets them signed by the whole cast. Nope, not this one. Fuck this one. The wedding scene with the friar – the very same one where they’d broken character so many times to try to convince the friar to give them up to the cops, offering bounty for the nurse to take one of their places instead at the altar – she’s drinking from her wine again. She’s getting dirty looks from the mayor for ripping little strips off the cover off her program. Fuck him. Fuck the mayor, and his stupid wife, who is tearing up when Logan and Veronica exchange vows, who silently cries when Veronica gets the news that her beloved Romeo is exiled and sentenced to death.

Because Veronica literally is acting like an upset person with feelings, and her dancing is spastic and real in this scene, traumatic energy flying through her fingertips as her nurse attempts to console her, and it’s not fucking fair. None of this shit it fair. Veronica spins in the most perfect fouettés Mallory has ever seen and it’s fucking beautiful.

And when Logan’s Romeo hears that Veronica’s Juliet is dead – he – there are literal tears in his eyes. _Tears_. Human ones.

The mayor’s wife openly bawls through the death scene. She’s literally sobbing, and what’s worse is that the mayor is so wrapped up in the obvious love of Romeo and Juliet that he doesn’t even care.

It’s garbage. All of it is garbage. When Logan and Veronica wrap themselves up in each other, faces just a hair’s breath away, the entire audience literally leans forward in their seats and they can all go fuck themselves because Mallory is done. She’s done.

There are seven encores. Seven times the curtain has to go up and down just so the audience can fucking clap some more, and when the spotlight shines on Mallory she doesn’t even stand she’s so over it, just salutes a little from her chair like _yeah I hate them whatever_ , and she doesn’t even get up when the house lights come on, when everyone starts to filter out to lobby where there is more champagne and paparazzi. Mallory stays in her seat until the theater’s empty, and then she picks herself up, fists her program, and heads backstage.

The whole cast is apparently gone, but Mallory knows better. She went to _college_. And she’s only _moderately to very_ drunk.

“Hey Mallory. Not bad tonight, right? Pretty good turnout.”

She glares. Feels a little unsteady on her feet. Knows she needs a vacation.

“Veronica!”

Both women turn down the long hall, to the backstage door far away.

It’s Logan, and he’s grinning at Veronica in this way that is all smug cheekiness.

And Mallory knows. She just does.

“Okay. Just, answer me this: when did it start?”

Veronica’s smile – oh my god – it honestly turns…wistful. “You don’t want to know.”

Mallory sucks in a breath. “You’re right. I don’t want to know. But apparently I’m a sadist because I’m asking anyway.”

Veronica closes her lips over an infectious smile. Turns away from Logan, fixes Mallory with a grin.

“When did we start sleeping together? Wrong question.”

“We never stopped,” Logan supplies, suddenly only a few steps away. He slides a hand around Veronica’s waist and tugs her close, and Veronica _turns into him and they’re not even on stage oh my goooddd_.

Mallory openly gapes. She’d half convinced herself she was making it up and they were just legitimately awful people bent on ruining her life.

“But – the fighting! The insults!”

“Oh, you mean, the pretenses?”

“The foreplay?”

Veronica elbows him lightly in the ribs, but she’s grinning.

“I don’t understand.”

“Oh come on. What do you think the rest of the cast would think if the two stars of the Neptune Ballet were boning each other.”

Veronica nods. “A) we’d lose everyone’s respect, and b) people like Hannah and Wallace would never feel confident enough to apply themselves. It would be Logan and Veronica with a bunch of unmotivated slackers.”

“You…you’re joking.”

Veronica shrugs. Logan ducks his head.

“I think she wants to watch us make out, babe.”

“We promised we’d stop doing that though, babe.”

“Hmm.”

Mallory puts a hand to her forehead. She can already feel the beginnings of a massive headache.

“You guys…you are the worst.”

They grin at each other, and it’s – _these jerks_ – they look _proud of themselves_.

“I’m quitting. You know that right? I quit. Officially. This moment.”

Logan grins. “You wouldn’t be the first.”

“You guys could probably start a support group. Tell Tim Foyle we say hello.”

They’re walking backwards toward the stage door, this coordinated, connected, disgustingly cute display of how physically in sync they are with each other.

“We’ll send you an invite for the wedding!” Logan calls, and then he hoists Veronica out the door, and she – she _giggles all the way out._

Mallory honestly feels at a loss. She can’t form words. So she gives up on sanity, gives up on rationale, and decides to find that hot bartender who served her that second glass of wine.

 

 

 

“Logan,” Veronica acknowledges, dropping her bag near the floor-to-ceiling mirrors with a smile.

He sees her, and grins. “Demon spawn,” he returns, leg outstretched and resting on the barre.

She walks up behind him, he doesn’t move out of his stretch, so she drapes herself over his back, tucks her arms around his midsection, and rubs her cheek against his torso. They won’t have long before the rest of the corps shows up. “I hear we’re getting a new choreographer today.”

Logan leans upright, turns, slides his arms around Veronica. New choreographer? It’s about time.

He ducks his head, and then he’s kissing her, and it’s an informal, searing abbreviation of a make-out session, the kind that makes him glad he’s wearing sweats and not tights, the kind that makes her remember what he looks like without any pants at all. She fists his shirt and he flattens her to him and they break apart only with the knowledge that their intimacy is better suited to the apartment they share across town, and that really – any moment – they’re going to hear the footsteps of their peers coming down the hall.

So Logan is downright breathy when he murmurs hotly, coy little grin in place:

“Go fuck yourself.”

And she matches his grin, slowly, knowing it’s more promise than anything, and a flash of heat spreads under her skin. She kisses him again.

“After you.”

 

 


End file.
